


Even the cake is in tiers

by BakedAppleSauce



Category: Peaky Blinders (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M, That's it, all the other Shelbys are in here too, idek what else to say about this, that's the plot, the AU nobody asked for basically, they hook up at a wedding
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-07
Updated: 2019-08-17
Packaged: 2020-08-11 09:34:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,021
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20151466
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BakedAppleSauce/pseuds/BakedAppleSauce
Summary: “You contemplating revenge, mate?” the guy says, not seeming overly worried by the prospect. Tommy realizes he’s been staring and hastily looks away. “Hm? Defending your brother’s honor and all that?”“Now, if I was doing that,” Tommy says. “What the fuck makes you think I would tell you about it?”They meet at Ada's wedding. It's all downhill from there.(In short, this is the modern AU that has nothing to do with anything, that no one expected and nobody asked for.)





	1. Chapter 1

“I am so very sorry, sir,” the bartender tells him, very politely. “There must have been a mix up, I’ll have to send somebody to get another bottle. It’ll take just a moment.”

Tommy nods and, for what feels like the hundredth time today, resists the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose. One fucking Whisky – that’s not too much to ask on a day like this, he thinks, especially when he’s been putting out fires since nine o’clock in the morning.

He has slept a total of three hours last night, and not even three consecutive hours, but in bits and fucking pieces. The first thing Polly said to him this morning was “You look fucking exhausted.”

The second thing she told him was to be nice to Freddie today. After he’d stared at her wordlessly for a few seconds, she sighed and told him to make an effort at least. Ten minutes later, she gathered them all in one room and made them swear on their mother’s grave to be on their best behavior for Ada’s sake – everybody except Finn, because apparently Finn, and this is a direct quote, can be trusted to not be a massive prick for no reason at all.

So Tommy’s been making an effort.

It’s not as bad as he expected, which might just be because due to the fact that he managed to stay away from Freddie for the most part. It’s hard to believe they used to be best friends at this point – before everything turned sour, and Freddie started to accuse Tommy of being a sell-out and a capitalist and Tommy started insisting that Freddie was a burnt out activist who wasn’t good enough for Ada or _anybody_ with half a brain in there head, for that matter.

It has been a long day, regardless – the florist got lost on the way here and started to set up almost an hour late, the caterer got into a massive fight with some of his staff, who threatened to collectively walk out on him and had to be bribed into staying put, and to top it all off, Arthur almost got into a fist fight with one of Freddie’s guests before the ceremony, right there in the middle of the church aisle.

As far as Tommy understands, Arthur had been taking his usher duties a bit too seriously, while the guest in question decided to be a bastard and made fun of him, which is a terrible idea on the best of days, never mind when Arthur is already stressing out about making this a nice bloody day that his only sister will be able to look back on and remember fondly in the future.

It’s only half past four in the afternoon, Tommy thinks, resigned to his fate after a quick glance at the clock. He’s going to be here forever.

“I’d certainly deny any and all accusations, right, of being an expert in this sort of matter,” a scratchy voice next to him says. “But I’m pretty sure that this is supposed to be a joyous occasion, mate. Commitment to love and all that.”

Tommy inhales deeply and turns to his right, assessing the person actually thinking it might be a good idea to talk to him right now with a blank stare.

Standing next to him is the guy who almost got into a fight with Arthur before the ceremony. He’s lost his suit jacket and waistcoat – stands there in just his shirt, sleeves carelessly rolled up to his elbows in a way that makes Tommy want to reach out and fix how uneven they are. The first two buttons of his shirt are undone, his tie all askew, the knot coming loose.

The beard would look pretentious if it was more meticulously groomed, but it isn’t, so he looks less like he’s trying to be hip and more like he’s want to emulate the early stages of a mountain recluse. The same goes for the tattoos – they should look like he’s trying too hard and instead look like he’s been to prison and, well, got stuck with a cellmate who wasn’t all that artistically gifted.

Which he hasn’t been, because Tommy had Freddie’s guest list checked – more out of spite than any actual concern – and is well aware who here has done what over the course of their lives and when.

“You contemplating revenge, mate?” the guy continues, not seeming overly worried by the prospect. Tommy realizes he’s been staring and hastily looks away. “Hm? Defending your brother’s honor and all that?”

“Now, if I was doing that,” Tommy says. “What the fuck makes you think I would tell you about it?”

“No, yeah, that wouldn’t be smart at all, would it,” the guy says. He’s leaning with his back against the bar, both elbows propped on the top, which makes his shirt bunch up and conveniently highlights… a lot of things. He looks, well, fucking _good,_ Tommy thinks, he can admit that much in the privacy of his own head. Built in a way that probably means he goes to the gym or participates in some kind of sports, but also in a way that’s just… body type, Tommy guesses. Broad shoulders, strong line of his neck, big, capable looking hands. Some jewelry, but no wedding ring.

“And everybody, yeah,” the guy takes a quick survey of the room for emphasis. _“Everybody_ in here knows that _you’re_ supposed to be the smart one.”

Tommy looks back up sharply at the statement. The guy is focused on twisting one of his rings around his finger with his thumb now, not seeming bothered in the least. Tommy considers calling Arthur over, considers throwing the first punch himself. When the guy looks up again, he levels the beginning of a smirk at him, like he can read the sentiment on this face – which he probably can, Tommy isn’t trying to be subtle – and thinks it’s hilarious, one corner of his mouth tipping up.

“Aren’t you?”

There is a moment of uncomfortable silence, during which Tommy just stands there, flat out refusing to say anything else, before the guy seems to relent. “You here for a drink?”

Tommy makes an effort to look around in a very exaggerated fashion, face completely impassive; left, right, taking in the ceiling, the whole bar, all the bottles lined behind it.

“No,” he says then, as sarcastically as he can. “No, actually, I’m just standing here because the acoustics are a lot better.”

“All those bottles,” the guy agrees immediately, very obviously amused. He’s still leaning, but he has angled his body more towards Tommy now, which puts more weight on one arm than the other. “Glass reflecting the sound and everything, right, makes the music sound a lot more… _transparent._ Not a lot of people know ‘bout that, but it’s true.”

“It _really_ isn’t.”

“Oh, so you’re an audio engineer now, mate?”

“Yes,” Tommy says, as dry as he can. “It’s one of many hobbies.”

What the fuck are they even talking about, he thinks, feeling out of his element and not liking the sensation at all. Are they flirting? Is this flirting? It’s more comfortable than watching Freddie Thorne dance with his new wife, who also happens to be Tommy’s sister, while pretending not to watch them or _care_ about any of this, at least. Which is a tragically low bar, but still.

Before the guy can say anything else, the bartender is back – handing Tommy a glass of the requested Whisky, fucking _finally. _

Tommy takes his drink, indicates with his head for the guy to go ahead. Almost asks what he’s having, like they’re at an actual bar or something, but bites his tongue instead. After all, it’s an open bar and Tommy is paying for all of this anyway, and apart from that, it’s not like he’s trying to… he doesn’t even know. Hit on him or anything.

“And for you, sir?” the bartender asks and the guy cranes his head around, blinks as if surprised, like he didn’t expect to be asked any questions at all. “You people got any apple juice back there?”

Tommy involuntarily snorts into his drink.

“Apple juice?” repeats the bartender, confused.

“Yeah.”

“Just plain apple juice?”

“Well,” the guy says very seriously. “I’d like a glass with that as well, right, if that’s at all possible. Don’t want you to just pour it into my hands, do I.”

He fully turns around to the bartender and cups his hands together as if to demonstrate. Jesus Christ, Tommy thinks, he’s fucking impossible.

“I’ll… see what I can do,” the bartender says and starts rummaging around.

“You do that,” the guy tells him.

“What the fuck?” Tommy says, not sure if he’s going for bewildered or amused.

“Oh, I don’t drink,” the guy says, completely straight-faced. Tommy can feel his eyebrows shoot up – it’s not the claim so much as the way he says it that makes it impossible to tell whether he’s kidding or not.

“Seriously?”

“Yeah, seriously seriously,” the guy says, like they’re in fucking kindergarten or something.

“Then what,” Tommy says, demonstratively looking around the bar again, “…are you even doing here?”

“I’m invited, mate,” the guy says and it’s very obvious that he’s playing dumb now, misunderstanding the question on purpose. “Hard as that may be to believe.”

Tommy rolls his eyes, which probably isn’t very polite, but fuck it. He’s not trying to impress anyone. Takes a sip of his drink and pretends not to notice how the guy unabashedly follows the movement with his eyes; stares at him without seeming to blink, almost. It makes something liquid and hot spread in the pit of his stomach, makes him want to draw this out and immediately put his glass down at the same time.

“At the bar,” he clarifies unnecessarily after a second and clears his throat for good measure.

“Well,” the guy says and he’s turned his back to the barkeeper again; links his fingers together in front of his chest and glances at Tommy sideways, barely turning his head. He looks almost wistful, like this is the start of long and mystical tale that he is now going to tell.

“I wouldn’t even _be_ here, would I, but the thing, right, the thing is this – _you_ insist on being over here, apparently. So I had to come over, didn’t I?”

“And why,” Tommy starts and has to clear his fucking throat _again. _Christ, he’s out of practice. “…would you want to do that, exactly?”

The guy, head still turned sideways, looks him up and down once, very deliberately – starts at Tommy’s shoes and drags his gaze upwards until he’s looking him straight in the eyes, and Tommy has to take another sip of Whisky; has to do his level best to pretend his face doesn’t feel very warm all of a sudden.

“At the risk, yeah, at the risk of repeating myself,” the guy says. “Aren’t you supposed to be the smart one?”

“So basically, what you’re saying is, I don’t qualify as the attractive one,” Tommy says and he doesn’t even know where that _came from_, Jesus, this is terrible. Why did he say that? There’s a flash of something on the guy’s face, gone again before Tommy can even begin to identify it.

“Well, yeah, sure, that too, I suppose” he says, like that wasn’t even up for discussion, because that much should be obvious anyway, even nodding a bit, like this is a serious fucking issue.

“Fuck off,” Tommy mutters and he’s definitely turning red now, there’s no doubt about it, his face feeling like it is burning. On a whim, he adds, “So, are you going tell me your name or what?”

“Oh, and why would I do that, mate?”

“Because…” Tommy says and empties what’s left in his glass for courage, tries to ignore the way his heartbeat is hammering in his ears, all of a sudden. _Fuck it,_ he thinks. Fuck all of it, seriously. This has been an awful fucking day, located right in the middle of what’s shaping up to be another awful and meaningless fucking year, and also, it’s not like Freddie and Ada wouldn’t deserve it if Tommy… _did_ something. With somebody. He deserves to fucking have this. God knows it’s been far too long, at least since there was anybody that seemed even remotely intriguing.

Which… this guy definitely _isn’t,_ he’s not intriguing in the least, Tommy thinks, not really, he’s just… very strange and maybe kind of good looking, and he doesn’t seem to be a complete idiot. So, why not.

“Because I’m not about to ask some fucking guy whose name I don’t even know if he wants to…” And then it’s like he walked face first into a wall – he can’t bloody say it, it’s like the words are stuck in his throat, refusing to go anywhere.

“Go on,” the guy says, voice pitched low, barely above a murmur. “Wants to what? Hmm?”

“Get out of here for a bit and… _do_ something,” Tommy says, which oh, _God._ This is infinitely worse than not saying anything. Christ, Tommy thinks, cringing inwardly at himself, Jesus Christ, this is terrible. This is the fucking worst. Whatever interest the guy might have had in anything happening between them has probably just died instantly, snuffed out like a candle somebody doused with ice water.

_“Do_ something,” the guy repeats, which doesn’t make that fucking car crash of a sentence any better.

Tommy shrugs, looks out over the dance floor. Resists the urge to blurt out that he’s taking it all back, they can just forget about it, fuck you very much and goodbye forever.

“Oi,” the guy says and when Tommy forces himself to look back at him, he’s holding out his hand. Three rings, one bracelet, a small ink blotch of a crown tattooed over the knuckle of his thumb. Tommy blinks down at it for a second, dumbfounded.

“I swear to God,” he says then, without even thinking about it, panic bringing out the sarcasm in full force. “If you say your name is bloody James Bond-”

The guy barks a laugh at that, quick and raspy. “Well, not gonna do that _now,_ am I,” he says. “I’m Alfie.”

Tommy does the mental calculations, thinks of Freddie’s stupid face and before he can stop himself, says, “Christ. Alfreds are bloody everywhere today.”

The guy’s – Alfie’s – face goes sour. “Now, did I say that,” he says and Tommy can’t tell if he’s actually insulted or just playing at it. “Did I say that my name was fuckin’ _Alfred?_ Hm?”

“You didn’t,” Tommy says and somehow, they’ve ended up shaking hands anyway, because they are doing it right now, and when did that fucking happen? Tommy doesn’t even remember making that decision. Alfie’s hand is dry, a bit calloused and very warm, right down to the metal of his jewelry.

“No, I fuckin’ didn’t, Thomas.”

“You do know people call me Tommy, right?”

“Did know that, yeah,” Alfie agrees, then adds, _“Thomas. _So. Right then. What was that about getting out of here for a bit?”

“I…” Tommy says. Christ, he’s _aching_ for a cigarette, which is always the case when he’s nervous – not that he’s nervous right now, it’s just an… _unusual_ situation, let’s put it like that – but smoking isn’t allowed in here.

“Hold the apple juice?” says the bartender, who suddenly pops up behind them out of nowhere, and only then does Tommy notice he’s been suspiciously absent for the last few minutes. Jesus, he thinks, flushing with embarrassment and instantly angry about that fact, was that arsehole listening in on this?

“Yeah,” Alfie says, seemingly unbothered, and has the fucking nerve to put a bill on top of the bar. “Good man.”

“What the fuck,” Tommy says, outraged. “Were you-”

Except Alfie has decided that this is the appropriate time to wrap his fingers around Tommy’s wrist, apparently, which is fucking preposterous, especially because he’s being so casual about it. Tommy entire hand twitches, muscles contracting and then releasing, and Alfie makes an amused sound.

“All right?”

“Fuck you,” Tommy says, before he gets himself back under control . “And… yeah. Sure. Why wouldn’t it be.”

“Just makin’ sure,” Alfie says, and he’s grinning on the inside.

Tommy can fucking tell. 

They end up in the dressing room by accident more than anything – because it’s not like Tommy had a plan exactly, which is a rare occurrence. They’re just passing and Tommy happens to glance at the door, and Alfie must have noticed, because he quietly asks, “What’s in there, then?” and Tommy says “Dressing room.” which is the official name, apparently, even though nobody actually got dressed in there.

As far as Tommy can tell, Ada and most of the bridesmaids fixed their make up in there, and possibly changed their shoes and did things to their hair; most of the necessary utensils are probably still lying around.

“Anybody in there?”

“I don’t know,” Tommy says. “Probably not.”

“Let’s check,” Alfie says. “Shall we?”

The room is miraculously empty and the door doesn’t actually lock, but it has a flimsy latch that actually works. When Tommy turns around, all of a sudden Alfie is _right there, _crowding into his space without touching him. Tommy involuntarily takes a step back on pure instinct, something sharp churning in his gut that feels a lot like arousal. Alfie follows him immediately, stays close and it seems like he’s looming, somehow, larger than life, even though he really isn’t.

Tommy fists both hands in his shirt, pulls him closer. Christ, he’s fucking _solid._ They stumble backwards against the large vanity, a few things falling over from the force, and something rolls and then hits the floor, thankfully without breaking.

“I’m not fuckin’ doing this in here,” Tommy pants, which would probably be a lot more convincing if he didn’t let Alfie grab him by the thighs and fucking _lift_ him on top of the bloody vanity with a grunt, oh Christ, this is fucking _ridiculous._ They slot together on what seems to be pure instinct – and he just seems to fucking _fit,_ is the thing, inserts himself between Tommy’s spread legs like he fucking belongs there, like it’s his God given right-

Fuck, Tommy is half-hard already. Can’t even _remember_ the last time he was this turned on, he thinks, the last time he wanted something this fucking badly, like he didn’t even care what else was happening around them, as long as he got off, which means that this is probably a bad idea, but he really can’t bring himself to care.

“Right, sure,” Alfie says, clearly going for sarcastic, one hand splayed wide over the small of Tommy’s back, pulling him even closer. “Whatever you say, mate.”

“Oh, so I _do_ get a bloody say in this? That’s really good to know.”

“You _want_ any say in this?” Alfie says, voice pitched low, and there is something sly to the twist of his mouth, something knowing in the dark of his eyes, that makes Tommy flood with heat and shiver with sudden irritation at the same time.

“Fuck off,” he hisses. “Who the fuck you think you-”

The rest is cut short by the fact that Alfie suddenly kisses him – short and sweet, just a quick press of their mouths, over before he can even process it. Tommy blinks at him – and Alfie looks as surprised as Tommy feels, which is _something,_ at least – and when he involuntarily licks his lower lip, he can see Alfie tracking the movement with his eyes, looking mesmerized.

They stare at each other for a long second and after that, it’s impossible to tell who moves first.

They almost crash into each other, Tommy interlacing his fingers behind Alfie’s neck, pulling him down, and then they’re _kissing, _messy and graceless and maybe like the world is going to end tomorrow. There’s a lot of tongue and some teeth and the foreign, burning scrape of Alfie’s beard, which should be annoying and is a fucking turn-on instead. Tommy realizes he’s rolling his hips, trying to grind against the hard plane of Alfie’s stomach already.

It’s fucking embarrassing, honestly – must make him seem like he’s desperate for it, which isn’t even that far off, and he can’t seem to _stop,_ Christ-

There’s a hand clutching his thigh now, fingers digging into the muscle, and Tommy has one crystal clear and very irrational thought of what it would be like to do this naked, in a bed – lying on his back with Alfie on top of him, hiking Tommy’s leg up further just like this and _God,_ when was the last time Tommy let anybody fuck him, it feels like it’s been _forever-_

Which is when somebody starts banging on the door.

Because this is still _that kind_ of day. 


	2. Chapter 2

His first instinct, stupidly, is to go completely still and pretend nobody is even here – which isn’t going to work, naturally, because the door is _locked, _which gives them away immediately.

For one or two endless seconds, they’re both frozen in place. Alfie’s hand, still at the small of Tommy’s back, tightens in the fabric of his shirt. For some godforsaken reason, Tommy’s brain chooses this exact moment to notice how fucking good he smells – and it’s not just his cologne, there’s something else underneath that makes Tommy’s stomach flutter and his thighs clench around Alfie’s waist all by themselves, which in turn makes them both gasp.

“Yes,” Tommy manages, voice mostly steady. “What?”

There is moment of silence, before a confused sounding voice yells through the door, “Tommy?”

Fucking Michael. It’s not the worst possibility in the world, because Michael very rarely questions anything Tommy does and probably won’t make a big scene over somebody stealing away to try and… _do_ _things,_ but it’s also not great, because if pressed, Michael will tell Polly _anything._

Tommy chooses not to verify that it is indeed _him_ that’s in here, because it’s going to become bloody obvious in a minute anyway. Instead he half-yells, “What is it? Eh?”

“We, erm, we need something!” Michael’s voice comes back, and Christ, Tommy really hopes nobody is in the hallway to witness this conversation right now, because this is about as dignified as a kindergarten food fight. There is literally _no way_ for them to open the door without it becoming very fucking apparent what they were trying to do in here – the fact that they locked the door is damning enough all by itself.

“Who’s we?”

“My sister’s left her inhaler in there, Mr. Shelby!” comes another voice, and Tommy needs a moment to identify Isaiah. “Sorry!”

One of Isaiah’s sisters is one of the bridesmaids, Tommy remembers, because of course she bloody is.

“Nothing for it, hm?” Alfie murmurs quietly. He doesn’t look too happy, which is flattering, but he also doesn’t seem that bothered. Well. It’s not _his_ family who’ll give him shit about this – and Tommy is never going to hear the end of this one, he can already tell. _Remember when our Ada got married and Tommy had nothing better to do than try and get laid in the dressing room?_

“Nothing,” Tommy says and pushes at Alfie’s shoulders, trying to ignore how fucking solid he feels under Tommy’s palms. Alfie promptly takes a step back to let Tommy slide off the vanity and then stands there rolling his shoulders a bit, straightening up when he’s done. Tommy clears his throat. This shouldn’t be awkward, he thinks, except of course it is. Once they open the door, Tommy’s not going to be the only one caught out. Just because Michael and Isaiah – and who the fuck even knows who else, Tommy thinks bitterly, the way this day is going, chances are the entire wait staff is camped out there as well – probably won’t know who Alfie is, doesn’t mean he’s invisible. They’re going to see him and they’ll _know._

He opens his mouth to offer… he isn’t even sure what, a chance to hide, maybe, which is a fucking ridiculous idea for a number of different reasons and apart from that, there really is nowhere _to_ hide in this room, because there is nowhere to actually go.

“S’fine,” Alfie mutters next to him, corner of his mouth tipping up and Tommy wonders how much of that particular train of thought has been visible on his face just now. “Don’t really give a fuck, do I.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah, mate.

“Well, all right then,” Tommy mutters, faintly embarrassed about the whole situation, and gestures towards the door. “I’m just, I’m going to…” which is as far as he gets before Alfie cups his face with both hands, tipping his head back, and presses a quick kiss against his mouth. Tommy blinks at him, completely derailed.

“Go on then,” Alfie says, letting go of him again, and Tommy has to clear his throat – _again_ – before he marches over to the door and unlocks the latch. Outside, Michael and Isaiah are standing there as advertised, but thankfully there’s nobody else. They have the decency to look somewhat uncomfortable; even though Tommy can see Michael’s gaze dart to Alfie immediately, once they’ve entered the room, clearly filing the information away for later.

As far as Tommy knows, Michael wasn’t there for the altercation in the church – even though he must have heard of it by now, because it’s how their family works, nobody could keep _anything_ to themselves even if their fucking life depended on it – but that doesn’t mean somebody hasn’t pointed Alfie out to him. Or maybe he just knows who he is regardless; since he’s one of maybe three people who are actually still capable of having a civil conversation with Freddie, he might be acquainted with some of the people on his guest list as well.

Alfie just stands there with his arms crossed - Tommy definitely _doesn't_ notice how his shirt sleeves are bunching where they have been shoved up – looking vaguely amused.

“Your sister gonna be all right, mate?”

“Yeah,” Isaiah says with a casual shrug. “It’s just a precaution, there’s something ‘bout the flowers and stuff, I’m not really sure.”

They start rummaging through the various bags that are spread out all over the room: “Navy, she said.” – “There’s three of them here that are fucking blue!” – “Navy, not blue, weren’t you listening?” – “So, maybe this one?” – “That’s way too light to be navy.” – “Oh fuck off, are you an interior bloody designer now?”

Tommy wants to ask what the fuck was so bloody urgent, then, if it’s just a precaution, but bites down on his lower lip instead and _doesn’t. _It’s probably for the best they got interrupted when they did – it’s not like things would have gotten _less_ humiliating later on. He realizes that Alfie is leaning against the doorway by now, arms still crossed, watching him intently. When he’s sure Tommy is paying attention to him, he raises an eyebrow and tips his head to the side, a clear indication to follow him. Tommy resists the urge to check whether Michael noticed the gesture or not; wonders if whatever he does next will make any kind difference to the overall impression.

Probably not. And even if he _could_ play this off somehow, he realizes suddenly, by walking away or acting indifferent, he doesn’t really… want to. At least not enough to… _not_ follow along when Alfie turns around and leaves.

“Where the fuck are we going?” he asks, once they’re far enough down the hallway, voice pitched low because they’re passing one of the waiters.

“You’ll see, mate,” is all Alfie says. “You’ll see.”

Which turns out to be the fucking toilets on the far side of the building. It’s deserted, Tommy’ll give him that, because there are other toilets right next to the entrance of the main hall that are a lot bigger and a lot more prominent, but still. _Still. _

He quietly decides that if somebody is already _in there, _no matter what they’re currently doing, he’s going to flat out refuse, just turn around and leave again – because there’s _undignified_ and then there’s standing around like an idiot and waiting for somebody to finish taking a fucking piss, just so you can get off. Which he is _not_ going to do, since he’d like to think that he hasn’t reached that level of pathetic quite yet.

Except they get into the room and Alfie actually has to feel around for the light switch, because it is dark and completely empty. It’s a lot smaller than the main facilities – two urinals, no window, just one stall.

“Well,” Tommy says sarcastically, to hide the fact how nervous he suddenly feels – because he half-expected somebody to already be here, and also because everything around them has gone quiet, no muffled sounds of people talking or even the band playing are audible anymore. It’s just the two of them, alone with the faint hum of the fluorescent light. “This is nice.”

“I’m very classy, mate,” Alfie says, nodding seriously. “In case, yeah, that wasn’t bloody obvious.”

He’s crowding into Tommy’s space again, and Tommy honestly isn’t sure how he does it, how he seems to take up so much room without even trying, drowning out everything else.

“Wait,” Tommy says. “Let’s just… in here.”

He reaches for the handle of the stall door somewhere behind his back without looking, misses and has to try again before it opens. Alfie is basically walking him backwards at this point, would have him pressed up against the door if it hadn’t swung open, and then they’re inside the stall and he’s cupping Tommy’s face between his hands again, kisses him deep and slow and thorough.

Tommy makes a small, turned-on noise when Alfie slips his tongue into Tommy’s mouth that is honestly embarrassing, but still – opens up just the tiniest bit wider, and lets him.

“Should probably lock the door, mate,” Alfie murmurs eventually, breath ghosting over Tommy’s lower lip.

“Oh, I should lock it, eh?” Tommy says, basically just repeating back what Alfie said, but he feels like he should say _something, _to show he has actually some control left, here, isn’t just… going to roll over and let Alfie decide every single thing.

“Yeah,” Alfie says, and he’s nodding again, like he’s trying to guide him, almost. “Really think you should, yeah,” and he’s already spinning them around slowly, so Tommy’s the one that’s closer to the door.

“Have to do everything myself around here, apparently,” Tommy mutters, turns around and clicks the lock into place; can feel his heartrate pick up at the sound. He swallows heavily. There’s movement behind him and before he can turn back around again, Alfie has draped himself against Tommy’s back – a warm, heavy weight, one of his arms sneaking around Tommy’s waist, pulling him backwards so they’re plastered together.

“Well this is fuckin’ comfortable, innit,” he says, sounding amused, and before Tommy can even think of an answer – mainly, that this was Alfie’s fucking idea – Alfie’s other hand is suddenly on his thigh, sliding inwards and _up, _until without preamble, he cups Tommy’s cock over his trousers and Tommy arches back against him instinctively, shocked and turned on in equal measure.

“Fuck,” he breathes, hyperaware of where they are and of the fact that the door only grants a thin illusion of privacy – if somebody walked in, they would hear everything.

“There’s an idea,” Alfie murmurs, so close to his ear now Tommy can basically _feel_ his mouth move. He’s got his palm pressed against the heavy outline of Tommy’s cock, which has gone stiff with blood almost instantly – rubs at it without moving his hand too much, applying the perfect amount of pressure. With his other hand, he starts unbuttoning Tommy’s suit jacket, then his vest – fingers a lot more clumsy than expected, which is something Tommy clings to, suddenly, almost grateful for _some_ kind of proof that Alfie isn’t as fucking smooth at this as he appears to be.

He’s breathing heavily, or well, they both fucking are, but Tommy has a heavy hand on his cock, feeling him up – and Alfie definitely knows what he’s doing, there’s no hesitation there at all – so what the fuck is he supposed to do? His hips are already moving, rocking into the touch, mouth wanting to hang open.

“Wait,” he manages. “Wait, I can’t… _fuck,_ I can’t- I’m still wearing-”

“Hmmm,” Alfie says, as if he’s actually contemplating the thought of just making Tommy come like this, in his fucking trousers and Jesus, _oh,_ maybe Tommy would let him. Would _want_ to let him, even, he doesn’t even fucking know right now. But Alfie seems to decide against that possibility, ultimately, because he moves his hand away, puts it on Tommy’s hip instead and says, “Well, fuckin’ get on with it then, yeah?”

Tommy opens his fly – actually fumbles with it because he’s so turned on his hands are shaking, _Christ – _and shoves everything down his thighs. This is fucking _ridiculous,_ except it doesn’t feel ridiculous right now, it feels hot and claustrophobic and urgent in a way that makes his knees feel weak with arousal.

_“There_ we fuckin’ go, hm” Alfie murmurs in a tone that sounds almost like praise and Tommy _hates_ him, seriously – doesn’t even really know him and he is still the worst. “That wasn’t so hard, now was it, mate.”

“Shut _up,”_ he pants. _“Christ, _do you ever just shut-” and then he’s too busy clenching his hand into a fist, has to press the back of it against his mouth as hard as he can to stop himself from moaning, because Alfie has wrapped his fingers around Tommy’s cock without warning. He’s fisting it tightly, thumbing the sensitive spot right under the head, which feels a bit dry and so fucking amazing Tommy knows it’s going to make him come in no time at all.

His head tips backwards without his permission, falls heavily onto Alfie’s shoulder and then he’s blinking up a the ceiling and panting against the back of his own hand. Alfie starts stroking him in earnest, sets a tight, steady rhythm that fucking _works;_ that just keeps getting better and better while his grip gets more slippery with pre-come, because… oh, _Jesus,_ fuck, Tommy is so turned on he’s leaking all over the place. This is humiliating and he doesn’t even care, couldn’t if he wanted to, not when it feels like _this._

_“God,_ you’re hot,” Alfie pants against his ear and thank fuck, he’s out of breath as well, Tommy’s not alone in this. “How the fuck are you this hot, mate, honestly, s’fuckin’ _indecent-”_

His other hand comes up and gropes at Tommy’s chest until he’s found a nipple; rubs at it through the shirt fabric with two fingers, before he very slowly starts twisting, just a bit, just _this_ side of painful… and Tommy’s fucking done for, this is all he can take.

He comes with a fucking mortifying whining noise, twists his head around to try and bury his face against Alfie’s neck, which doesn’t quite work out, so he ends up with his forehead pressed against Alfie’s jaw, panting helplessly. It seems to go on forever. He’s dimly aware of Alfie making soothing noises, maybe even to try and keep him quiet, but it’s impossible to pay attention right now.

Eventually, he takes a deep, heaving breath and tries to scrape back some semblance of control. Alfie’s hand is still on his cock, rubbing gently over the head with his thumb and Tommy twitches in his grip as soon as he realizes, over-sensitized.

“Had enough?”, Alfie murmurs right next to Tommy’s ear, voice low and hoarse, and for some fucking reason, something in Tommy’s stomach flips clean over with a strange mix of dread and arousal. What the fuck kind of question is that? Who the fuck does this bastard think he is anyway?

“Yes,” he breathes, which inexplicably comes out sounding like a question, too high and unsure. Alfie makes some kind of amused, snorting noise at that and presses a kiss against the side of Tommy’s neck, before he finally lets go. Tommy looks down to survey the damage. Somehow, through some minor miracle, they managed to avoid getting anything on him. When he shuffles around, awkwardly pulling up his underwear and trousers again, Alfie is holding one of his hands in the air and away from his body at an angle – because it’s covered in come, Tommy realizes, face flooding with heat, because Tommy just- oh, Jesus _Christ. _

Alfie goes for the roll of toilet paper with his other hand, unceremoniously cleans himself off. His face is flushed and his temples are dark with sweat, his whole appearance even more disheveled than before. Fuck, Tommy thinks, he looks _good. _

“Wall,” he rasps, doesn’t even recognize his own voice at first, because he sounds that hoarse.

Alfie blinks at him, clearly confused. “What?”

Tommy takes him by the arms, pushes at him until he’s with his back against one of the walls. Alfie inhales, probably to say something, except Tommy lets his legs give in, like they seem to want to, anyway, and collapses to his knees right in front of him.

“Fuckin’ hell,” Alfie whispers above him, sounding faint.

He doesn’t tell him to stop. Still, Tommy doesn’t dare look up at him. He feels overly hot, shirt sticking to his back underneath all the other layers. Knows Alfie is staring down at him, taking in the way Tommy just put himself on display. He wants to press his forehead against Alfie’s hip, his thigh, anything, just to be close, to calm down for a second, but he doesn’t. Reaches up to unfasten Alfie’ belt instead, tries to open his fly. His hands are shaking and his face feels like it burning.

“Oi,” Alfie says and then there is a hand underneath Tommy’s chin, carefully tipping his head up. Alfie is looking down on him like he’s mesmerized, doesn’t even seem to blink. Says, very softly, “S’all fine, mate. All right?”

“Might be out of practice,” Tommy says, trying to shrug, trying to be casual about this, because it’s true and it's only fair, and also because it’s the only thing that feel safe enough to admit right now.

“I’ll be the fuckin’ judge of that,” Alfie says immediately and with complete conviction, like that is his God-given right. “Huh? Can we agree on that?”

“Yeah,” Tommy breathes.

“Yeah,” Alfie says and he’s still holding Tommy’s face, but his other hand finishes unfastening his belt, thumbs open his fly. Tommy swats his hand away, pulls the zipper down, then his trousers. Can already see the heavy outline of his cock through his boxer briefs. Oh, he thinks, and it doesn’t seem to matter he just came a few minutes ago, he’s so fucking turned on he can barely even breathe. Oh, _fuck._

He sways forward – the floor isn’t comfortable at all, tiles hard and unforgiving, but he doesn’t fucking care – and mouths at it through the fabric. Above him, Alfie inhales with a hiss and his hand slides from the side of Tommy’s face further back, into his hair. Tommy feels arousal coursing through him, running down his spine like electricity at the touch, even though Alfie isn’t trying to hold him down or tug him in any direction or anything. His hand is just… there, cupping the back of Tommy’s head.

He fists the material of Alfie’s underwear, carefully pulling it down. His cock springs free, hard and red – he’s decently big, and what’s more, he’s got the fucking _girth._ Tommy’s mouth is watering just looking at him. There’s no way he’ll be able to fit him inside his mouth completely, he thinks, over the strange buzzing in his ears. God, when was the last time he even _did_ this?

In the end, it’s probably not the most graceful blowjob he's ever given. He chokes a few times, rhythm faltering when it happens. His chin feels wet, because he’s getting spit everywhere almost instantly. The muscles in Alfie’s thighs quiver with the strain, every time Tommy manages to tongue the underside of his cock and he’s taking deep, shuddering breaths, patting Tommy’s head almost absentmindedly in the meantime, so Tommy thinks he must be doing something right. He keeps his eyes closed and lets himself sink into it, the way it feels and tastes, the way Alfie is gripping the back of his neck now, oh _God-_

_“Fuck_ me,” Alfie says out loud. “I’m, this is, _fuckin’_ hell… letting you know right now, mate-” and Tommy just doubles his efforts – has received the message loud and clear, and has decided he _wants_ this – and Alfie bangs his head back against the wall, once, and then he’s coming, pulsing hot and bitter over Tommy’s tongue; and Tommy didn’t even know he was going to swallow – planned on spitting it out, actually – but before he even realizes his throat is working and he’s swallowing everything down until it’s over and he’s panting desperately, face buried against Alfie’s hip, like _he_ is the one who just came.

There is a hand combing through his hair.

“You okay, mate?” Alfie says eventually and he sound’s _wrecked,_ voice unsteady and coarse like gravel.

“Yes,” Tommy manages, oddly breathless. “Yeah, I’m… yes.”

He gets off his knees a bit unsteadily, with a wince, because fuck, he’s going to feel this for the rest of the day. As soon as he’s upright, Alfie kisses him _again;_ licks into his mouth without any hesitation whatsoever and Tommy basically falls against him, lets Alfie take all of his weight.

Which is, of _fucking_ course, the exact moment the main door hesitantly opens – they both freeze at the noise – and a quiet voice says, “Tommy? You in here?”

Because very obviously, the universe fucking hates him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CAN'T STOP, WON'T STOP!  
The interruptions are a compulsion at this point.

**Author's Note:**

> Bear with me, everyone, I just have to get this out of my system. Probably. Hopefully. I don't even know why this needed to exist... just that it _did._ It was absolutely essential. Also, full disclosure, I can't even tell if they're in character or not.  
(And yes, the title is terrible. I am aware that the title is terrible. It is what it is.)
> 
> I'm [bakedapplesauce](https://bakedapplesauce.tumblr.com/) on tumblr.


End file.
